


in heaven, everything is fine

by donniedarko



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roofies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donniedarko/pseuds/donniedarko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how the romance each other. With dirty talk comprised of split arteries and frontal lobes. With alcohol and rohypnol, but never at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in heaven, everything is fine

Will had once heard that  _vele_  was the Lithuanian word for a demon that sucks the souls of the innocent, and he couldn’t think of a better way to describe Hannibal Lecter. (He's not quite sure how accurate it is; he knows it's from some TV show, but it's spot-on for his purposes. He's also heard it means devil in other places, which is just as true. Hannibal Lecter is his devil, if not the actual one.) From the moment Jack Crawford first locked the three of them in a room together, the psychiatrist had left an aftertaste in his throat that made his blood boil. He was possibly the most polite person Will had ever met, but every action he made was a defense and an offense. No matter who it was, it looked like he was studying them. Especially him. Just like Jack wanted Alana to do. (He knows, and they think he doesn't. He knows she's his puppet.) Like a test subject that they can drive an antidote out of after infecting, their own private patient zero. And hell, Will was supposed to be the best profiler in this division, whether or not he was officially part of the FBI. He shouldn't let Alana or Hannibal or Jack Crawford drive him up the wall like that.

Hannibal’s sly remark about “not being able to turn it off" didn't mean anything to him at the time. He may not be able to stop empathizing with murderers, but something inside of him tells him he will never empathize with Hannibal Lecter.

Despite his initial misgivings of the man, he tried his best to make their encounters cordial, if not warm or friendly.  Hannibal offered him help in the form of “whatever he needed," although the sentiment just made Will feel more and more like a patient than a coworker. He knew it was misplaced, that he could be projecting his anger onto Hannibal. Maybe he was. Anger he harbored towards everyone else onto someone who could help him. Typical self-sabotage. So he forced himself every day to be nicer to the man, to not reply with biting distrust whenever Hannibal asked how he was, to not deflect any psychological remarks back his way. He even made himself sit down in the his office and discuss the cases they were assigned to work on together. He naturally mirrors other's speech patterns, after all, and no matter how unintentional it is, he finds himself being polite right back at him. And, however uncanny, he found himself enjoying the man's company and eagerness to please. Even if he still held all that resentment in his palm.

It’s during one of these sessions when Hannibal first invites him over for dinner. They’d been discussing the Angelmaker while Hannibal focused on paperwork, when the psychiatrist breaks and looks directly at Will until he's finished talking. It’s an unnerving gesture, since he never breaks eye contact and Will's eyes are only half-lidded, but then again the profiler has a way of talking to him about killers like he’s only talking to himself. 

When he stops talking and theorizing, Hannibal speaks. "Will, you seem malnourished as of late. Have you been eating properly?" (Leave it to Hannibal to find the most insulting way to ask him over. Leave it to him to get under and in his skin.)

"They told me not to lose sleep over this, so I traded in another thing." (Which is a lie, because Will hasn’t been sleeping either.) He adds with disgust, “besides, it’s kind of hard to eat after seeing so many crime scene photos of people with their backs ripped open. Human flesh isn't all too appetizing to me."

Hannibal stands up, cocking an eyebrow, and strides over to Will. “Well, one’s needs must take precedence over their work, as an old friend of mine would say. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight, and I’ll make sure you’ll have enough to eat? You won’t even need to do so until the case is over, I can promise you that." It sounds more like a proposition, (maybe even a demand,) than an invitation, and Hannibal walks on to get his coat. Will vaguely realizes his hour's up, has been up for a while now, and this is the doctor’s way of indicating their session,  _conversation_ , is over.

"I'll see you at eight then," Will murmurs, because he doesn't know if there's any way to say no. It sets him on edge. But Hannibal's courteous enough to see him out, however, and smile almost gratefully all the while, and it somehow makes Will feel electric. He offers a low “see you tonight, Will," before the he turns away and starts to lock up his office.

Will drives home, and it's already too dark. He feeds his dogs. He tries to work on his lures, tie them off, but he loses focus. He spends an hour tying and retying, stuck in a state of flow, until he realizes he needs to go.

When Hannibal answers the door, he’s surprised to see him fully-dressed, holding a glass of wine. He murmurs a pleasant, “ah, Will," before opening the door farther, invitingly, and handing him the glass.

"I’m so glad to have you for dinner, Will. I’d never imagine that you would find time to grace my table," Hannibal says as he directs him to his dining room. Like the rest of his house, it did serve a purpose: to impress. From the mahogany table, which was already laid out with bread and tapenade for an hors d'oeuvre, to the chandelier above, it all makes Will feel so small and so grand all at once. Maybe because it's all for him, this show is private. He takes in how Hannibal's house is filled with deep, deep blue, which the light blue-green of his own walls would pale in comparison to. There are enough chairs for ten people, and he assumes they're always filled during his dinner parties. Even the plants off to the side wall are all painstakingly cared for, like a doctor would for the sick. (But he is a doctor, isn't he? They are his sick.)

They sit down and eat slowly. They try to keep conversation light, (how's your fishing going, Hannibal asks, because the smug bastard already knows without Will ever telling him, and Will inquires to the origins of the entrée, which he says was a lamb,) but it devolves into the case. It always does. It's all they really have, they only interest they share. Their mutual obsession.

"Do you know why the Angelmaker turns his victims into angels, Will?"

He shakes his head, no. He's had three glasses up to this point, and Hannibal's pouring him another.

"Because, in his eyes, they are not victims. They are demons, and he sees himself as being sent to do God’s work, to purge them and reclaim them as vessels of God." He pauses, “But, if you remember our previous discussion, God feels good when He kills. So, he, instead of just saving them, he elevates them to a metaphorically higher plane. He splits their backs, folds apart their sinew and skin. Hangs them up as monuments to his own destruction." He pauses. "He wants them to watch over him, but it makes him sick."

"But isn't he already sick?"

"Of course, Will. We all are."

For some reason, his mind wanders while Hannibal talks, and while he drinks. He wonders what it would feel like to grab him by the lapels of his jacket. He wonders if the Angelmaker thinks they're demons in the way that Hannibal's a demon, or if he'd be too scared to even touch him. Just like Will is. He doubts anyone could open up Hannibal like that, and it makes him want to laugh, because he wants to open him up. (Hannibal mumbles something about how there's a part of him that knows it's wrong.) He wonders what it'd be like to run his hands through his meticulously combed hair. He wonders is Hannibal thinks this is foreplay, that he gets off to their gory dirty talk, all split arteries and frontal lobes. (The doctor says something about his illness being physical, rather than mental.) Maybe Hannibal likes thinking about his insides like this.

"Do you know what he wants, more than anything? More than purification and to do God’s work?" He looks at Hannibal, suddenly feeling brave, cocky, self-assured enough to give him a smirk, “He doesn't really want them to be saved. _He_ wants to be saved. He knows it’s wrong, knows how dirty he is, even though he thinks it's righteous. He's not worthy of God’s kingdom, not anymore, not with what he does. Maybe he thinks that taking out people who aren’t either will make up for that, but that's what's damning him, too. Hell, he might’ve not even been a Christian until he started killing," Will chuckles, tipping the glass fully to his lips and finishing off his drink. He's jumpy in a way that comes before you argue with someone, where you build up words and they either fall flat or prove a point. And it might be because that's how they've romanced each other.

(Will's seen it, the way Hannibal looks at him sometimes when he's not looking at him the other way, the professional curiousity. That hunger in his eyes. He knows what he wants, what they both want.)

Hannibal nods but says nothing, and the rest of the meal is shared in silence.

He follows him to the kitchen after dessert, although Hannibal won’t let him help clean up. (It wasn’t anything like that. Will just wants to be able to touch Hannibal, that’s all.)

The alcohol makes his head muzzy. His cheeks are burning when he nearly falls on Hannibal, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the sudden faintness or how close they are. Will snakes a hand up towards his arm, pulls him, and they’re so so close now, although the low lighting makes it impossible to see -to tell, he means,- what Hannibal is thinking. He’s so tired. Will can smell his cologne. Something that doesn’t have a little ship on it, he thinks, and that’s all his sense of smell can tell him.

He tries to pull himself off, but instead slurs, “Doctor Lecter, I think I might need another drink," while Hannibal keeps a hand on the small of his back to keep him from falling. He can’t pull away since Hannibal’s keeping him there, so Will took the chance and instead mewled close to the good doctor’s ear and placed one if his hands into his back pocket, effectively trapping the two together. He’s so tired. He might lose his balance if he tries to disengage now, and Will’s internally debating the finer points of balance and dignity.

Hannibal swallows, and he can feel it, he breathes and he can feel it, and he mutters a low “Will"  as a warning.

The profiler just keens in closer, nuzzles the man’s neck. “You say my name a lot," he breathes. He breathes, and he’s so tired. “You say my name a lot," he repeats, “because that’s the oldest trick in the psych book." He pauses. “But it still sounds nice. I like it anyway."

Hannibal watches him for a while, like he's taking in just what wine alone could do to Will. It scares Will, how his look is predatory, but also excites him enough to make him move his hips closer into Hannibal’s. It’s a look different than the one Hannibal gives his patients, finally, but different from their foreplay. It’s more like how a mongoose looks at a snake. Which is funny, because he thought he was the mongoose. (Maybe he is. Maybe the snake bit him.) Will looks up at him through his eyelashes. His eyes are half-lidded, because he’s tired, because of lust. (He likes to think he can _feel_ him straining against his trousers, denying himself this. A good host wouldn't take advantage of their drunk guest, would he?)

"Will," Hannibal says sternly, and this time it echoes inside of him, “We can’t." The psychologist places his hands on his shoulders. He’s trying to help him up and off of him, but Will’s too far gone to care.

"You don’t want it?" Will’s voice cracks, and he can feel his glossy eyes well. He stares at Hannibal and gets no reply, just the face of a man who can’t string together the right words for the situation. Probably a face he's shown everyone for too long. (Somewhere, the sober part of him is reeling at this. He’s shouting that he one-upped Hannibal, so very easily. That he did it without even trying. What a _shitty_ psychiatrist he is.)

" _Please,_ Hannibal, please, I need it. No one else can give me what I need," his lip quivers, and his glasses are fogging up, "I’m so tired of it. Jack, he, he treats me like I’m going to break, then tosses me around until I almost do. And everyone else is stuck thinking I-I’m some sort of killer, just because I can see what- what-" Will has to focus to keep his thoughts together, because something inside of him was tearing. And it was probably because  _Hannibal_  had got inside him like that. Not at all like he wanted. He found himself wishing he wasn’t in front of him at the moment, exposed and vulnerable like this. But he feels it- his face is so hot by now- and then he can’t stop. "B-but you don't and you'd unders-stand, you could give it to me because you kn-know."

He just figured that’s how it was with people like him, people who  _never_  cry. If they manage to do so, they can’t stop. But Hannibal was there, offering himself with open arms to the sobbing man. And fuck, he feels pathetic, because he wasn’t only Will’s therapist, he was his colleague. (Will doesn't mind though, because it's Hannibal's job. He's kind of a whore like that, that's what he does. He becomes what his patients need, gives them his mind instead of his body.)

It takes him a while to stop trembling and realize that Hannibal is rubbing circles on his back, that they're still close but it's a different kind of close. He's holding him steady and letting him sob. Will wobbles and his breathing is ragged, every exhale coming out as a sharp _hic_. It's like he's choking on himself while his head screams for him to stop doing this.

When he's calmer, Hannibal leads him back to his living room and hands him a glass of water. He insists that he lie down on the couch, which is the strangest thing, because he'd always thought Hannibal would be more concerned about people getting their shoes on his furniture than that. It's funny, actually, and he makes sure to tell him that. Will thinks he says something about calling him a taxi, but it echoes in his head and reverberates inside of him instead of making it to the open. He's still too busy laughing to talk. He doesn't know how long he stays there, but it's anywhere in between twenty minutes to two hours. The next thing he knows he's at the door. Hannibal must have led him there, but he doesn't know. 

Hannibal says, "we’ll have to do this again, very soon," after some other things he doesn't remember, and Will thinks he sees something in Hannibal's eye.

A glint of red, maybe.

(Will feels like there’s a hole in his heart, and it’s shaped like Hannibal’s fist.)

**Author's Note:**

> the show will's referencing is s7e6 of the x-files, which has a demon that sucks the souls of innocent people. and while vėlė does mean demon in some slavic countries, it's actually a dead person's spirit in lithuania. interpret that how you will.


End file.
